A Little Too Late
by orchidcactus
Summary: Aeryn and post-Fractures emotional fallout.


A/N (2011): Another piece written during the show's original run. My other favorite.

('01/'02) Notes, setting, and rating: PG. On Moya, well after Fractures. I've never written in first person before, so this was an interesting challenge.

**A Little Too Late**

I am not quite sure how I fell asleep in the cramped space; I've never stayed this long before. All I really do know is that my neck is stiff from the odd angle forced on it, and a control panel has created a bruise on one shoulder. The rhythms of time, engrained from the time I was young, tell me that I'm not late, but I soon will be, and I don't want any of them finding me here. I don't know if I could bear the looks of pity, and whatever that expression is on the other one's face. I think Pilot knows about my visits, but to his credit he has never given a hint of betrayal.

Pulling the white cover back over the small ship hurts as much as it always does, this goodbye, again. Ignoring the identical ship across the bay, I rest one palm against the cloth, feeling the outline beneath my hand. I can't afford tears this morning; I don't have time for them. As I walk away I allow my fingers to trail along the side of the module, letting the rough cloth slide under my fingertips. Another goodbye.

I have to run if I'm going to make it in time. Run to my quarters to stand under a tepid stream of water. Ignore the ghost whose complaints echo in my head over the temperature. Some days I let the complaints take form, see the dark hair slicked against his forehead and remember the way he would press against me, his skin tight with the cold. I silence the complaints ruthlessly. Not this day.

I'm not late. My hair is wet, which he'll notice, but would never question, as he would my absence. This has become part of our schedule, meeting here in Command. I sit in my usual place at the long table, in front of the stacks of data chips and flimsies and reports. Everything dress-right-dress, just as it should be. I m consulting a report when he enters the chamber.

"Coffee?" he asks, beginning our ritual by setting a steaming cup of liquid at my elbow, before rounding the table to sit opposite of me. Immediately he starts on his work, eyes busy with his formulas, hands shifting the flimsies about his chaotic workspace.

Of course it's not 'coffee'. At least not in the sense he would remember. John told me about it. John on Talyn? John from before? This one? The memories overlap and collide. I don't feel well. Hoping he doesn't notice my shaking hands, I take a careful sip of the orange liquid; grateful for the gentle tingling it sends through me. I still don't feel right; waking in the module has left me disoriented, stirred up so many odd thoughts and memories that have been lurking in the corners.

"What do you think about this?" he asks, surprising me. He's slides a report across the table, without even looking up. Already he's concentrating on the next flimsy, the next strategy, the next chance to destroy his adversary. He is a man with a purpose, a mission.

I suddenly find it somewhat disturbing how much like a soldier he has become. Why should that be upsetting, I ask myself? It only betters our chances. Shaking my head, I try to look over the strategy outlined, scour it for weakness.

"What?" he asks, not missing the head shake. He misses very little these days. Those blue eyes bore into mine with an odd intensity that perhaps I only imagine. "Can't a Prowler do that?"

"Uh, no. Yes, yes, it can," I know I'm stumbling for the words. My head hurts, but I refuse to give in to the pain.

He nods slowly, looking at me with what? It's that odd expression again. Another surprise, so early in the day. I was sure I'd pushed him away hard enough to keep him from ever looking at me that way again. Concern, sorrow, worry, care, pain love. Something tightens inside.

"It will work, but I'd rethink this and this," I make small marks on the flimsy before passing it back. It hurts to make my voice so cold, pushing him away.

He knows he's overstepped by looking at me like that, but he's gotten skilled at backing away. He acts as if nothing happened, just takes the flimsy and nods to himself, consulting his notes, making changes.

We work in silence for a while, and gradually I begin to feel a little better as our routine re-establishes itself. It's been this way for more than a monen, now. We meet here early every day. He brings me coffee and doesn't push, usually. Today is my fault, I came in upset, and he could feel it.

He mutters something, and I look up, but he's only talking to himself, deep in thought. He's scowling in concentration, biting at his thumb. I wonder if it's wormholes. Memories collide. His head tilts and he runs a hand through short hair. I can't help but watch the play of muscle and tendon of his forearm. I almost smile when he whispers an Earth word in frustration. Sometimes it's harder than others to think of him as a copy.

His head jerks up, eyes boring into mine. I shouldn't have stared; he misses so little now. His eyes are at first confused, then narrow with anger as I look away guiltily. No matter which John I recall, none of them ever appreciated the thought of being toyed with.

"I'm gonna call it quits for today," he says coolly. Normally he takes my cup with him to wash, so that we can start the next day in our normal ritual. This time he leaves it.

It's very late, or very early, depending on the point of view. I find myself in the bay again, but this time someone else is staring at the cloth covered ship. Leaned against the original module with his arms crossed, he looks tired with his shoulders stooped under his burden.

I knew he was here; Pilot says he's been awake the entire sleep-cycle. I cross the bay slowly, stopping paces from him. I try to ignore his ship as I step a bit closer and hold out my clean coffee cup.

"I'm sorry," I don't allow my voice to waver. I find I've put my free hand on the module, and somehow can't bring myself to pull away. The contours are the same, smooth curves and angles. My headache has returned.

He glances at the cup, and for a microt I wonder if he'll refuse it. It would certainly be within his rights. Finally, he nods to the open cockpit of his ship, a compromise. He's still angry, but not enough to be cruel. Of course, he doesn't realize what he's asked, that just putting the cup on the edge of the cockpit tears at me. As I lean over, I find that unlike the shrouded craft, the inside of this one still smells like him, like John. Collisions in my mind. I can't take this type of reprimand.

"You can't change the rules like that, Aeryn," his voice is rough as he half turns to me with a hopeless gesture. "I just can't take " his voice breaks off and he glances away, blinking rapidly.

This is my doing; he's right in saying I broke the rules. I just don't know how to put things back in order, not when I can't even tell him apart from the frelling memories. I lean my forehead against the side of the module, glad for the cool surface. His voice is calmer when he speaks again, calmer, but still upset.

"Whatever you decide, just don't ever do that to me again." I can hear him moving away, back to his mission, or perhaps his quarters.

Something warm brushes the side of my hand still pressed against his ship. Another tear drops down, racing across the white paint to collide with my hand. Tears reflect the dim light in the bay as they pattern his ship. John's ship. I'd almost forgotten that the other one was Furlow's copy.

A voice behind me makes me stiffen. It was as if my thoughts had summoned him.

"I forgot something." He's trying very hard to follow the rules; his voice is even and bland as he reaches into the cockpit for my cup. "Coffee, tomorrow," he manages. He's done being angry with me, his tone says. He's ready to start over again, completely on my terms whatever they end up being.

I can't nod, I can't look up to see him leave, I can't breath. John on Talyn, John here. Two lives the same, colliding merging. I think I understand now; that there never was a copy.

He stops in front of the door, watching it pivot open. He looks back at the last possible microt, eyes troubled. I've made him so suspicious, so wary of saying the wrong thing. He gestures with the cup, at the same time nodding toward Command.

"It's a little too late to sleep now." He wants to work; I recognize the nervous energy.

I can nod now, can finally breath again. The walk across the bay takes an eternity. Standing in front of him, I can see the distrust in his eyes. I don't remember the last time I felt shame like this. I hope I'm not crying when I speak.

"Is it too late?"

Somehow John knows I'm not asking about coffee, or sleep, or work.

"No," he says, so softly I barely hear him.

I leave the bay with him, glancing back once at the shrouded craft. And for the first time it doesn't feel like goodbye.


End file.
